Bullet
by platedlizard
Summary: The line between sanity and insanity is a thin one, and one day promises must be kept. Don't say I didn't warn you.
1. Default Chapter

This story is a classic example of why when I was in High School one of my teachers thought I was taking drugs. I wasn't then, and I'm not now. The story wrote itself in about a half an hour and I swear when I started writing I meant for it to be about something completely different. Flames, CC, or OMG UROX are all good.

Disclaimer: Witch Hunter Robin is owned by Sunrise, Bandai Entertainment Inc and now apparently the Sci-Fi Channel. Only the plot is my own. I am writing this story purely for my personal entertainment and no money has been or will be made from the production of this story.

She didn't see the bullet.

The man stood in front of her, just a shadowy figure in the distance, she didn't need to see him to know who it was. He had a gun drawn, the silhouette of man and gun danced in the thin fog that always seemed to surround the river side this time of night.

She hadn't seen him for over two years, not since the night he had closed his heart to her, turned his back, and left her, breaking a promise that shouldn't have been made in the first place. That night the world had turned black. Useless. Evil.

That's what she was, now.

Nothing mattered. Not herself and not the man.

Four years ago it hadn't been like that. Four years ago they'd had honor, trust, and respect for each other. She'd loved him, and he, she suspected, had loved her. Two years of running had changed that. Two years of living in each other's pockets, of being Hunted, of killing. Little conflicts had become major eruptions. It was impossible to fight cabin fever when there was no escape, when he never let her out.

And then there was the voices, pleading, crying, twisting, _hurting_. She'd tried to block them out, to shut them away, to ignore them. It never worked. Even now she could hear them, distance and time changed nothing. The ones who were dead wanted vengeance for their deaths, the ones still living wanted her to be their savior, their Joan of Arc.

He wanted her to ignore them. She didn't, she couldn't, and when she acted on their pleading he'd turned from her. Because, he said, he couldn't keep his promise.

The voices had taken over, forcing action that perhaps only a few years before would have been unthinkable. They'd given her respite after the first killing, had faded to a murmur for a while and left her alone. Gradually they had grown again, until once more they were a thundering waterfall of sound, until there was no escape, and only another killing quieted them again.

The line between sanity and insanity was a thin, fragile thing.

She'd tried to hide it from him, she'd been able to keep the first few killings secret, or so she thought. But then came that night, the night he left, leaving her despairing, hopeless, and utterly bereft. She found another target, another person that the voices had said were the cause of their agony. One pure burst of flame and the tainted human had disappeared as though he had never been. She'd paused, savoring the silence in her mind, and a small sound behind her caused her to turn. And there he was, standing behind her, his gun trained on her just as it was this night. He said her name, his voice full of so many conflicting emotions that she almost didn't recognize the words.

And then he lowered his gun and said, "I can't keep my promise. God help me." He then turned his back and left. Left her. Thought shattered, splintered; fell still, like a broken mirror a thousand images of them and their time together. Falling buildings, Orbo, tortured witches, friends. He was gone and nothing made sense anymore. She was insane, evil, tainted.

He was gone.

The next two years were a blood soaked war. Nothing could stop her; no one could stand against her. Living Witches and Hunters turned their hands against her and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that the voices she now heard were no longer real, but then nothing was. The world had ended when he left; or she had died and was in Hell. She was Hell, her flames burned the damned. She was the Devil's daughter, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise anymore.

And now the man was back. She hated him. Loved him. Had been dead, truly dead, the since the day he'd left her. He stood, shadowed by the night and blurred by the fog; he stood in front of her, and leveled his gun. Relief flowed into her, one way or another it was over.

There were no words exchanged. She folded her hands and closed her eyes.

She never saw the bullet.


	2. Rain

Dear God I'm in a morbid mood today, AND ITS ALL MEHIEL'S FAULT!!!11oneonetwothree!!1 Jesus, what is it about me and angsty fics? I haven't a clue. Um, originally this was going to be a one shot, but it's running away with me. So maybe not.

It seems that Amon's Angel of Darkness also posted a similar-but-not-really fic, probably about an hour or so before I put Chapter 1 up. Trust me, I was as suprised as anyone else to see two fics with a similar basis so close together. I sure as hell did NOT 'copy' hers, her story is very different then mine. I detest plagerism as the most vile thing an 'author' can do. I didn't even see her story until the day after I sent my story in. AFAIK AAOD is cool with my story, and I'm cool with hers. So lets not say anything more about this.

See first chapter for disclaimer.

* * *

The man approached the woman where she lay. She was bleeding, a sure sign that he had not fulfilled his promise to her yet. Her beautiful green eyes had flown open at the pain of being shot, she turned her gaze to him as he knelt beside her fallen form. There was no recrimination, no hate or fear in her eyes. She knew why he had done it and, perhaps, loved him for it.

The man carefully parted the folds of her shirt, which was so filthy and full of holes that he wondered idly if she had ever changed it in the two years since they last met. The bullet hole was just to the left of her heart and the wound would kill her without medical intervention, but take a while. The girl stank of ash and soot and blood and sour perspiration. He closed his eyes suddenly, remembering a girl who enjoyed long bubble baths and kept herself so fanatically clean it was a wonder she hadn't scrubbed her skin off.

He opened his eyes again and took a moment to truly look at her. The parted shirt revealed the figure of a famine victim, her ribs were clearly defined and her stomach sunken. He realized that in the last two years, as she laid waste to cities and whole countries, that she'd been suffering as well, too sick to care for herself.

The man wondered just how much of this was his fault. If only he had been able to pull the trigger two years ago the girl and the world would not have suffered so.

He reached down and touched the matted head of hair, the memory of the once silken locks momentarily overpowering the present reality. The girl squeezed her eyes shut and leaned into his touch, seemingly deriving comfort from her killer's hands.

Their gazes met, and for one clear moment he could see the fifteen year old girl who's innocence and purity had made him make a horrific promise, sure that he would never have to carry it out. Sanity, for once, replaced madness, and he wondered how the hell things had gotten so fucked up. Fifteen-year-old Robin didn't deserve being trapped in twenty-year-old Robin's insanity.

Her lips were moving, silently. He realized she was praying, and he hoped that God could forgive her many sins. He knew he was a damned, tainted, foul individual. Surely God would realize that the real blame lay with him, for if only he had carried out his oath then many thousands would still be alive, and Robin would not have suffered.

The prayer concluded, as prayers do, with a silent 'Amen'.

He took out his gun again and pressed it to her heart. This time he did not miss.


End file.
